What Fight for What Reason?

 "Most of this fight you are going to have to do on your own," Mom tells me.

Their Whole Fucking Job

 I was walking the dog around the horse unit with mom, who was walking her puppy too, when I mentioned to my mom that the voices were especially bad today. She said she was sorry. 

"I think I'm going to leave Dr. [Ba.] a note," I say.

"Why? He's not going to do anything but put a note in your chart."

"I'm tired of talking to myself," I say exasperated. 

"Has your doctor not told you? There's nothing they can do, and the symptoms are just going to get worse."

"I don't want to hear that," I reply honestly. "[IP] says there are always things to try." I always wince whenever I mention IP to anyone who doesn't know how I truly feel about the man.

"Then let's talk to [IP]." 

I don't want to explain to my mother that I would have to be re-hospitalized in order to be under IP's care. I can't send IP a cry for help letter. It's strictly against the rules we set up before we started emailing each other. 

 I'm supposed to be able to talk to my doctor when I feel a crisis looming in the horizon. When I last talked to Dr. Ba. during our last session, he didn't seem to be particularly concerned about the auditory hallucinations. He was more preoccupied with his new promotion (but he will still be seeing a small number of patients, me included), replacing one of my favorite doctors (who luckily, for me, is not retiring). Again, I don't believe Dr. Ba. gives a shit about how I'm doing. Psychiatrists are doctors who prescribe medications for mental illness. That's their whole fucking job. That's what he should be doing or I'm wasting my time driving up there, three hours one way.

You Can't Be Afraid. You Have to Just Ride.

 Somehow, someway, while sitting on the bleacher stands, during a summer cutting horse show I was hit by this powerful, deep sense of loneliness and alienation, like no one understood and I was all alone in some tragic, teen-agery way. I couldn't escape it. It didn't help that no one at the cutting knew me, and that I haven't ridden in a horse show in about twenty years. 

James was there, telling me I was a piece of shit, and as much as I like to ignore him, I do often times feel like a piece of shit. At least when he's telling me I'm dirt, the bottom off of someone's shoe, he's not telling me I'm stupid. I do feel unintelligent, and I don't need James to remind me of that fact. 

I sit there, and I watch the horses. I notice that there are plenty of skinny loper girls in tight jeans, running around, brushing out tails for trainers who are just about to step in the show ring, but there is only one female rider in the open classes, Morgan Cromer. The rest are all men. 

I look at Morgan as someone who could have been me if I didn't have fibromyalgia and chose to keep training horses at Skip Brown's ranch (for a little while longer, then moved on to an assistant trainer position at a cutting horse facility). We both rode with the same cutting horse trainer, Russ Westfall.

I can't go back in time and change the path I was on (I went to New Jersey, and realized that turning a hobby into a profession was not for me).

Being a loper is a tough job, and the only job I'd be able to find if I wanted to go back to work in the cutting horse industry. Early mornings and late nights. Physically, I probably couldn't do it full time. Nevertheless, I sent a Facebook private message to Morgan Cromer saying that I was looking for work, willing to do any kind of work--clean stalls, saddle and unsaddle or--yes, lope. I can lope a circle. For how long? That is to be seen.

So, why so many young, enthusiastic female lopers, making their way literally in circles in an arena, booting horses up, shampooing tails,  and only two well known female cutting horse trainers (you cannot forget the Lindy Burch)? Talk about a glass ceiling. 

I have Sawyer, my three-year-old gelding to think about, and I have been searching for someone in the industry to help me with him--labor in exchange for lessons. My friend John, who I've known since I was eight, has help me some.  But otherwise, so far, no luck. If I had success with him, would that make me feel better about myself as a person?  Riding Sawyer is complicated for me because every time I swing my leg over him, I am facing down some demons. Simply, the horse scares me to death. I lost my fearlessness at some point in my illness, and you can watch Morgan ride, the way she send her horses across the pen to catch those cows that she fears nothing. 

Sawyer can be unpredictable, he's bucked, he's bolted, he's jumped around, etc. You have to be prepared when you ride him. He is, also, very fast and very strong. You can't be afraid, You have to just ride. 

It has been suggested to me to sell him and find another horse that isn't so scary. I've put a lot of thought into that. Honestly, he's just so talented. No, he's not going into the show pen any time soon, but he has the ability to go there someday.  He can compete at the open level. He just needs to see some cows.

Healthy

 Over the past four or five days, James has been unusually quiet and subdued. Is it part of a trend?

"What do you attribute that to?" My outpatient psychiatrist asked me during our last session. This was a trick question, and I fall right into it like an idiot. 

"I think it's the clozapine kicking in," I say, honestly. He would later state that it wasn't a medication that helped me, but rather being engaged outdoors with the horses and staying busy and social and three days a week therapy and all that crap that was saving my life, not the pills. The fact that he's a psychiatrist who doesn't believe in medical intervention--well, I continually have a difficult time swallowing this. What does he do, exactly? If he doesn't prescribe pills?

But, he gave me the big "told you so" during our session, an attitude I didn't particularly care for. Literally saying, "I told you..." He was impressed that I was doing so well, but if he knows anything about psychiatry, he should know that this is the most vulnerable part of the cycle, if you will, of depression because you have just enough energy and executive function and motivation to kill yourself. 

So much of my identity is my illness, so what happens to me when James goes away, and I am healthy? Well? Who am I then?

The Final Straw

 Morpheus finally blocked me on Facebook even though my worst defense was I asked him out to coffee. So, I had it. I archived our conversation, and then deleted my text-messaging to him. I did pause at deleting him from my contact list. I deleted the voicemails of his that I've had for many years (I did save the sound files in my email account). I figured the less I see of him or reminders of him, the better off I'll be. 

I didn't cry, I didn't even feel really sad, I just felt numb to it all. Like this is the end that we've all been waiting for.

Some Game of One

What if--

What the voices are saying--

Is true?? 

What if the voices are telling the truth?? Factual information? Correct interpretation? About your life, about yourself, about other people?

Game of Twister, Part V

Time had passed into our session in the conference room, and I was sitting next to him. He hadn't mentioned it. Did he forget? Did he not want to broach the topic? 

"So, yeah, about keeping in contact, we can email each other, I would like that," he said. "I'm not always the best at writing emails..."

Like that? I repeated in my head. 

He went on to explain that sometimes he was away from his email for a week or so, but that he always came back. 

James commented that maybe I should just hump his leg.